


tu ne seras jamais seul

by radiophile



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 21:19:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1241131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radiophile/pseuds/radiophile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aramis learns the truth about Porthos' birthday.</p>
            </blockquote>





	tu ne seras jamais seul

**Author's Note:**

> Content warning for mentions of alcohol/drunkenness.

It's not until their third year celebrating Porthos' birthday as friends and brothers-in-arms that Aramis learns the truth. The party has long since died down, dawn a few hours away and most of the men already in their quarters or else passed out on the nearest available bench. Athos had already retired to his room earlier, giving Porthos a rare embrace before staggering off to bed, taking a wine bottle with him. It's just a handful of them still awake, drinking the last of the open bottles and conversing in hushed tones. Aramis regards the other musketeers, playing cards and sloshing wine over their winnings in their drunken eagerness, and shakes his head.

"Marcel is going to wake up tomorrow without a _sou_ to his name, at the rate he's going," he tells Porthos. The two of them have a table to themselves, not counting the man sprawled out asleep under it. He glances up, expecting a laugh or smile in response, but finds Porthos looking down at his cup, uncharacteristically somber. Aramis knocks their knees together under the table and raises his eyebrows in query.

Porthos doesn't look up right away, which is enough to sober Aramis up at once. He hadn't been all that drunk to begin with, finishing a cup for every two or three the rest of the men put away. There is nothing unusual about that; Aramis is not without his vices, but drink has always tempted him the least. What is unusual is for Porthos to let a joke pass him by, without so much as a grin. Hunched over the table, tense and withdrawn, he seems diminished, even small -- two things Aramis would never have believed Porthos could be.

"What troubles you, my friend?" Aramis asks quietly. "On your birthday, of all occasions."

For some reason, Porthos does laugh at that, but it's all wrong. Joyless and mocking, it does nothing to ease Aramis' worries.

"It isn't," Porthos says at last.

"Pardon?"

"It isn't my birthday. Or, at least, it's very unlikely, considering I chose the date at random," Porthos shrugs. "Even I wouldn't bet on those odds."

It takes a minute for Aramis to work that out, and by then Porthos is already shoring up his defenses, leaning back in his seat and rolling his shoulders in a careless gesture, filling out more space before Aramis' very eyes. He's smiling again, but Aramis has spent much of the last three years watching Porthos, and sees what it's costing to pretend it didn't hurt to make that confession.

"You're an exceptionally lucky man," Aramis hears himself say. "I would bet on you."

This time, Porthos' laugh is genuine, if a little stilted. "Lucky, am I? How do you figure that?"

"Well, for starters, you can count me as a friend," Aramis says, without hesitation. It's a familiar routine between them, comforting in its predictability. On cue, Porthos rolls his eyes and Aramis offers up his most charming smile. "How many have the honor of sharing such a close relationship with me?"

"Half of Paris has had that honor, from what I hear," Porthos snorts.

Aramis lays a hand over his heart, giving Porthos a wounded look. "Jealousy is so very unbecoming of you."

Porthos laughs again, louder and easier this time, and it settles Aramis like nothing else. He's not sure when his own mood started to rely so much upon Porthos', but there's hardly any point in examining the matter, as far as he's concerned. If there's one thing Aramis has learned in life, it's not to question the things that make him happy. That line of thinking inevitably led to doubt and guilt, and Aramis has more than enough of both to be getting on with.

"We're the lucky ones, Porthos, to be able to call you brother," Aramis says, still smiling but no longer teasing. "Nobody in this garrison cares what day you were born -- or where. It only matters that you're here among us."

For once, Porthos seems at a loss for words. It was a rather effusive statement, perhaps a little too sentimental even coming from him. But Aramis has never been one to shy away from voicing his feelings, and Porthos can blame this conversation on the drink come morning if he likes. He gives Porthos a few moments, but before awkwardness can creep into the silence that had fallen between them, Aramis goes on.

"And if you're not happy with the date, you can always pick another one. Do you think Tréville will notice if you have two birthdays in a year?"

Porthos shakes his head as he laughs, clearly seeing the change in tack for what it is. But he readily follows Aramis' lead and falls back into their usual banter. "It's not as if we need the excuse to throw a party, but it might be worth a try."

They won't speak of this in the morning, Aramis is sure. It's not certain Porthos will even remember the conversation at all, judging by how heavily he leans on Aramis as they finally make their way to their rooms. But when Aramis falls into bed, too exhausted to do more than kick off his boots, he closes his eyes and sees Porthos bent over his cup, looking impossibly small and alone. Aramis knows he will guard that memory for the rest of his life, and falls asleep with a half-formed promise on his lips.

end.

**Author's Note:**

> Title translation: "You will never be alone."
> 
> (EDIT: Okay, _now_ it actually says that. Thank you to those who pointed out the error u_u)
> 
> I have zero knowledge of this time period, Dumas' original works, or the French language, so clearly I'm in my element. My apologies for any mistakes!


End file.
